


Ralathor the Gunslinger

by TheDarkMetalLady



Series: Four Heroes Walk Into a Bar... [2]
Category: Gloryhammer (Band)
Genre: Crack, Drinking Games, Gen, Humor, gunslinger
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-06
Updated: 2019-11-06
Packaged: 2021-01-24 07:43:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21334687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheDarkMetalLady/pseuds/TheDarkMetalLady
Summary: Ralathor the Hermit, Ralathor the Warrior, Ralathor the... Gunslinger?
Series: Four Heroes Walk Into a Bar... [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1537972
Comments: 6
Kudos: 17





	Ralathor the Gunslinger

**Author's Note:**

> Requested by [Draconic_Dreams on Tumblr](https://draconic-dreams.tumblr.com/). 
> 
> I do not own the Gloryhammer characters. Please note that this story is about the _characters represented by the band_ and **not** about the band members themselves.

“Never have I ever… gained the title ‘Gunslinger’ in the Californian Wild East.”

“You are all terrible,” Ralathor muttered before downing his glass, grimacing at its strong and bitter taste. He then glared at the smug Californian across the table, “You especially, barbarian.”

The Hootsman beamed as if he had just been given the best Yuletide gift in his immortal life. “Always glad to reference the stories of our shared immortal time.”

“I share nothing with you. It is pure coincidence that we co-exist.” The hermit poured himself another shot. “Next round. Angus.”

“Wait wait wait,” young Angus McFife XIII said, “That’s it? Next round? What, I don’t get to hear whatever amazing story is behind you having been referred to as a Gunslinger?”

“No, you don’t,” came the hermit’s response.

“I can tell it,” offered the Hootsman with a grin. He downed his shot despite it not being a round and grabbed the bottle from Ralathor to pour himself a new one. He leaned back in his chair, his smugness taking on new levels when he saw the muted look of pure horror pass over Ralathor’s eyes at the thought of him recounting that particular story for the hermit.

“No, you won’t,” Ralathor said, speaking a bit quicker than he would usually. “I will tell it myself.” Then, the hermit also muttered something under his breath. (The Hootsman was fairly certain he would end up hexed by the hermit by morning with some petty inconvenience like having all of his wolven armor dyed magenta or having his beard all tangled up, but the tale was worth every ridiculous and trivial punishment Ralathor could impose upon him.)

Angus put down his glass and leaned his elbows on the table in an unprincely manner that he was only comfortable with in their presence. Angus was very interested in finding out how the stoic and no-nonsense immortal hermit of the group ended up becoming a notorious gun master of the Wild West, or the Californian Wild East as the Hootsman called it. His green eyes focused their intense gaze upon Ralathor; he was ready to hear this story. 

Ralathor sighed to himself and gave the Hootsman one final threatening glare. “Four centuries ago, I had made a very serious mistake when visiting the Hootsman in the Californian countryside — one no one should ever repeat — and accepted an offer of a drink that a certain long-bearded buffoon who may or may not be in our presence refers to as the Spirit of Hollywood.”

“I’ve had that before,” Angus added. “It’s great, though it gives a killer headache come morning.”

The hermit ignored the interjection and went on as if the prince had never spoken up. “Come morning, I woke up alone in the middle of a field, my cloak missing along with most of my clothes, though thankfully the thief,” a glare at the Hootsman, “had elected to leave my undergarments alone. There was also a loaded gun that had been left nearby, along with a note that told me I’d need to find my way back to civilization. So, I took the gun and went east, towards the direction that I was certain our camp was.”

“It was west,” the Hootsman interjected.

“I’ll tie your beard to your hair if you interrupt again,” Ralathor broke from the story to threaten. (Naturally, the threat only made the Hootsman grin more.) “But yes, as I would later find out, the camp had in fact been in the opposite direction from the way I had gone, no thanks to someone who hadn’t left me directions and had instead allowed me to wander the wilderness while hung over and alone. And yes, hungover — I had a killer headache the entire time.”

“So you had a short temper when you ran into people?” Angus asked.

“I think his usual temper counts as short,” the Hootsman commented, vaguely aware of his boots being turned pink under the table. He expected that. 

“To you, Hootsman, it is always short.” Ralathor had been stuck with the barbarian too long. “I am less likely to throw other people through a portal half a mile above Loch Ness. But, given that I was hung over and it was a group of average bandits that encountered me and thought they could take advantage of someone wandering the countryside half-naked… Well, the metal of the gun happened to be very enchantable, and certain enchantments work quite well with projectiles.”

“Average bandits, he says,” the Hootsman commented. “It was Jesse James and his band of folk. They weren’t exactly the average type.”

“They ended up dead all the same.”

Hoots scoffed. “Yeah, ten people dead with three bullets.”

“Piercing runes,” was the hermit’s reply.

“And damn good aim, apparently.”

“So you’re telling me that the Californian legend about the half-naked gunslinger is about  _ you _ ?” Angus asked, shocked. 

“Perhaps,” Ralathor answered with the attempted crypticism and picked up his glass with a sigh. “Now, shall we continue with our game or not?”

“My only question for you, Ralathor,” came the voice of the holographic knight who had been watching the group in silence thus far, “is when did you learn to aim that well? I distinctly remember your attempts at using a bow in Crail on a dare from our Prince’s ancestor,” the hologram motioned to Angus, “when your missed shot went past the target and ended up striking King Desmond’s—”

A shatter rang out as the hermit’s glass sailed through the hologram and broke into several hundred shards against the wall behind the projection.

_ “Do not finish that sentence or I will turn off your hologram indefinitely.” _

**Author's Note:**

> Want to see some of my other works or request a story? Check out my tumblr [here](https://thedarkmetallady.tumblr.com/) and my prompt and request rules [here](https://thedarkmetallady.tumblr.com/PromptAndRequestRules).  
This work was beta-read by [Lavender_Persimmon305](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lavender_Persimmon305/pseuds/Lavender_Persimmon305) (Tumblr: [tellmeoflegends](https://tellmeoflegends.tumblr.com/)).


End file.
